


not much between despair and ecstasy

by bowyer



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Angst, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 02:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11888151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowyer/pseuds/bowyer
Summary: In his daydreams, Freddie just knows how to do this, how to get a man off. In reality, in this seedy alley in Thailand with a prostitute, it’s very clear he doesn’t.





	not much between despair and ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> Set between 'Talking Chess' and 'Endgame', written all in one sitting after seeing an A+++ am-dram performance.

“You would like some fun?” The pretty Thai woman says as Freddie walks past, in broken English that somehow makes her  _ more  _ pretty.

 

“No. Thanks. Not tonight,” he waves her off, exaggerates his drawl, keeps in character.

 

“You are sure?”

 

“Yeah, I’m…” Something makes Freddie look back at the woman, and it’s then that he realises she’s not a woman at all. It’s a man.  _ He’s _ a man.

 

The Thai man - boy, practically - is shockingly good looking, with slightly too-long rakish hair, and deep brown eyes that seem to  _ know  _ as they look at Freddie. And Freddie, who’s spent so long trying to hide, shaping a character and building a wall, finds that he doesn’t mind all that much.

 

He’s curious, not suicidal, though. He checks behind him, checks all around, but there’s no one here. Just Freddie and the Thai boy, on a warm summer evening, in the dark.

 

“How - how much?”

 

The Thai boy grins as he names his price. It’s not as high as Freddie was expecting, and infinitely affordable on his Global salary. 

 

“Do you have a place?”

 

“Your hotel?”

 

“No!” It bursts out of him accidentally; the Thai boy raise his eyebrows. “N-not there. My… yeah.” He shrugs, not really sure where that sentence was supposed to go.

 

But the Thai boy understands, Freddie thinks. He’s placing an awful lot of trust in a man he hasn’t met before this evening, a man who trades in secrets and lies and lust.

 

“Sunan,” the boy says clearly, pointing to himself. “You?”

 

“Freddie.”

 

“Freddie,” Sunan repeats, a small smile spreading on his face. “Freddie, come.” He takes Freddie by the hand, and leads him to a narrow, dark alleyway. The money changes hands.

 

Freddie can’t believe that he’s doing this.

 

Sunan seems to sense that it’s a new thing for him, though. His hands are careful as they brush Freddie’s face, gentle and soothing, but strong. Thumbs smooth over his cheekbones, hands trace down the tendons of his neck, whisper-soft against his skin and rasping against Freddie’s five o’clock shadow.

 

Freddie’s eyes are half-lidded, and he can feel his cock stirring. Just that, just a touch, and he’s putty in Sunan’s hands.

 

Sunan goes to kiss him.

 

“No!” Freddie jerks away instinctively. “Not - not there.” Because this is real enough, this is business, and he can’t abide the idea of anything fake.

 

Christ, he’s pathetic.

 

“Okay,” Sunan says, simply. “Okay.”

 

Instead, lips brush against his cheek just briefly, and then his neck, fleeting touches not strong enough to leave marks. He seems to know this without being told.

 

Sunan is stronger than he looks: at least, that’s what the hands that course over Freddie’s forearms and chest suggest. They’re in an alleyway, it’s stupid to take off any clothes that aren’t barriers. He regrets, all of a sudden, not getting a burner hotel room, so he can feel those hands on his bare skin.

 

The hands make their way lower down, dallying at his waist, thumbs dipping against Freddie’s hip bones and under his jeans, before continuing down again. One strong hand cups the bulge in Freddie’s jeans, where his cock is straining against his button fly and  _ too many layers _ , whilst the other braces against the wall.

 

Freddie is cornered, but he’s never wanted to run away less.

 

“Okay?” Sunan says again, knowing eyes watching him.

 

“Yeah. Fuck.”

 

The bracing hand pats his shoulder, the cupping hand gives his cock a squeeze, and Freddie whimpers like a bitch in heat. There’s a sudden hot flash of embarrassment at the idea of someone,  _ anyone  _ catching him like this, and he reaches up a shaking hand to cover his mouth, biting down on the lowest third of his middle finger.

 

Sunan makes short work of Freddie’s fly and underwear, and gently frees his cock from its textile prison. He lets go of Freddie’s shoulder and drops to his knees, nuzzling at his cock with closed lips before taking it into his mouth in slow, torturous movements.

 

Freddie’s head hits the wall as Sunan begins to suck. He bites down harder on his fingers to stifle his moans, and tries to brace his legs to keep his knees from shaking.

 

He must be a quick study; just another queer in a dark alley, too scared to be anything else.

 

But Freddie has deprived himself of everything for so long, and where has that gotten him? He lost his best friend, he lost his sponsorship, he lost the game that was all that had ever mattered to him. So why the fuck not?

 

He’s getting alarmingly close in a short space of time, little sparks of lightning as he is taken to pieces in Sunan’s talented, practiced mouth.

 

“W-wait,” he says, trying and failing to steady his breathing. “I want - I want…”

 

Sunan pulls away, off Freddie’s painfully hard cock, and the sudden coolness makes his knees buckle. Sunan looks up, still on his knees, his face calm and peaceful and somehow innocent.

 

_ God you’re lucky he takes cash, Trumper. _

 

“I want to touch you,” he says. “Please.”

 

There is a minute where he thinks the language barrier is too great, but then Sunan gets to his feet with another “Okay.”

 

Freddie’s hands aren’t as practiced nor as steady as Sunan’s, but he pulls out Sunan’s half-hard cock and strokes it in a way that he thinks he does on his own.

 

In his daydreams, Freddie just  _ knows  _ how to do this, how to get a man off. In reality, in this seedy alley in Thailand with a prostitute, it’s very clear he doesn’t. His strokes are ineffectual, barely having any reaction at all. Sunan is moaning, but Freddie’s pretty sure he’s faking it.

 

“Sorry,” he mutters, through another white-hot flash of embarrassment.

 

Sunan smiles and touches his fingertips to Freddie’s jaw. “Is okay,” he says, again. “Here.”

 

He curls his hand over Freddie’s, guiding it in firmer, more confident strokes. Then, chest beginning to heave, he pushes Freddie’s hand away, before gathering both cocks in his own hand and jerking them together.

 

This was not a move Freddie knew about, but he instantly approves. He crosses Sunan’s hand with the opposite of his own, and flings his head back with a gasp.

 

His eyes are open.

 

It’s then he realises that someone is watching.

 

Sergievsky on a late night stroll, thinking about his game, no doubt. Fresh from snarling insults in Freddie’s face, from an argument with Florence, because why else would you be out on your own the night before the last match?

 

_ Guess you really know I’m perverted now. _

 

Sergievsky takes in the scene. He knows, he sees, he knows, and those fleeting moments of  _ why the fuck not _ are dissipating. 

 

He meets Freddie’s eyes.

 

He smirks.

 

He turns on his heel and leaves.

 

It brings Freddie back down to earth like a rocket crashing on re-entry. He’s no longer lost in the moment any more. He’s no longer anything, any more.

 

“I changed my mind,” he says, but he’s not sure the words are coherent. But he can feel how white his face is, that icy nausea gripping the pit of his stomach, his cock deflating and no longer interested. “Sorry, I - sorry.”

 

He tucks himself back into his trousers and hightails it out the alleyway, doing up his fly as he does so.

 

He stops when he’s certain he’s not being followed, that he’s alone again, and he doubles over by the side of the road and heaves until he’s throwing up everything in his stomach, again and again until there’s nothing but spit and bile, and hot tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

 

When there’s nothing left, he starts walking again. For how long he doesn't know, nor in which direction, his eyes blurred by the tears that Freddie’s too tired to get to fuck off. 

 

He’s the one who paid, but he feels dirty, down to his soul, deep into his bones. He’s spent all these years hiding and perfecting and creating his character. In one moment, it’s all gone.

 

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do now.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it obvious that this is the first time I've written porn with genitals talked about?


End file.
